Silens Nox
by FFcrazy15
Summary: In the early hours of Christmas day, after the truce is broken, Fr. Mulcahy prays for the impossible and finds that sometimes, prayers aren't answered in the ways we expect. F*L*O*C*K 4077 piece.


Disclaimer: don't own, don't profit, no copyright infringement intended. _ALSO: To the person who asked F*L*O*C*K just stands for "Flock," like a shepherd (or a priest's) flock. _My thanks to  www .silentnight. web. za/translate/latin. htm (Remove the spaces).

**M*A*S*H**

In the seminary, Fr. Mulcahy had had two professors who'd been military chaplains in their day. One was a jolly man who'd earned both his bars and his nickname "Boom Boom" during WWII. The other was a hard-nosed man named Mnsr. Michael Thornope, originally a Catholic British chaplain who'd moved to the US after the first World War. Neither man had ever spoken about the harder parts of war, and now the good priest understood why. As he knelt by a young man and crossed himself, murmuring in Latin, he thought it was bitterly unfair, for so many men to be injured and dying on Christmas Day.

He absolved the young man, anointed him and administered the _Viaticum_ before standing and going to the next. He methodically checked the next few dog tags, and realized that he'd ministered to everyone in the compound, for which he was grateful. He tucked his frozen hands inside his pockets, trying to warm the numb digits as best he could.

A hand tapped his shoulder, and he looked up, surprised. A nurse was standing above him. "We've got a lull between now and the next wave," she informed him. "Most of these boys can wait. Can you give them all a second shot of morphine?"

He nodded exhaustedly and took the syringes she handed them. Apparently all the nurses were busy in OR and post-Op, or they wouldn't have the chaplain doing the medical work. Still, he'd learned quite some time ago how to administer the painkiller, and so set about the work.

Mnsr. Thornope. Funny that he should think about him now; usually those two chaplains, especially Fr. Michael, only crossed his mind very briefly at night in his prayers, or when someone commented on something that reminded him of them. He searched back as he administered the prescribed dose. There had to be a reason for the thought… what was it?

Yes… he remembered now. Mnsr. Thornope's lecture on hypostatic union, his second year. He'd deviated from topic and spoke reminisciently for a few moments about that well-known Christmas night during the midst of the war, when the firing had stopped at the sound of the Germans singing _Silent Night._ The unofficial Christmas Truce, when enemies had exchanged gifts and pleasantries, when Mnsr. Thornoppe said he'd heard both German confessions and German carols, when tired and saddened men had found joy in a common tie. For a moment, a deep panging stirred in Mulcahy's heart for that kind of peace and fellowship, for just a moment's respite. Was nothing sacred anymore, not even Christmas?

He administered another dose of morphine. Beneath his breath, he began to sing that old carol. _"Silens Nox… Sacra Nox… Omne est lux… Omne est pax…"_

The words of the old carol seemed so contradictory, for all was not calm and bright. He smiled bitterly at the sound of a muffled noise, almost like distant thunder, evidence of the shellfire on the front lines a few miles away. _"Cercum matrum et puerem… Infans sacer, O beate…"_ The words became more a prayer than a song, as he begged the Lord to stop the shellfire for just a little while, just an hour! He thought of his dear sister back home, his friends, the boys at the CYO… and then he thought past it, to the woman and child B.J. had showed him in his photographs, to Hawkeye's father, to Klinger's many uncles and all their families, so far away… Oh, Lord, just an hour! Was that so much to ask?

_"Dormi in pace quieta… Dormi in pace quieta…"_

His voice faded off at the end of the carol, and he waited a moment, holding his breath.

There came a low, resounding rumble beneath his feet, and he felt his heart sink into his boot soles. His eyes burned with unshed tears. It had been a hopeless prayer, a foolish wish, to think the war would end because of some silly old Christmas carol. But he was tired, so tired… and had it been so much for the Lord to do, He Who had walked on water, Who had changed water to wine, Who had descended to earth and redeemed this fallen world? But the bombs still fell and the war went on. He closed his eyes wearily and gave in to despair.

"Father?"

He looked up in surprise. One of the wounded boys was looking at him, tears in his eyes. "Father," he said again hoarsely. "Do ya… do ya think you could sing that song again?"

Fr. Mulcahy stared at the man, stunned, and then swallowed the lump in his throat. He wiped his eyes and nodded. "Of course, son." He offered a sad smile. "How about in English this time, hm?"

The boy nodded thickly, as did a few of the others around him, and the priest realized that just because prayers aren't always answered the way one wishes, doesn't mean they're unanswered. He began to sing again, a little louder this time, and though his voice was choked and off-key, there in that frozen, dismal compound, it was Christmas. _"Silent Night… Holy Night…"_


End file.
